


Subtleties

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fics [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dualscar deciphers the depths of the Sufferer's subtleties. Much to his chagrin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtleties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Filling Blanks and Taking Names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/338979) by [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom). 



The first time, it starts innocently enough. 

“Psi’s out exploring with the English boy,” Suff tells you, looking at you with those damnably wide, pitiful eyes of his that make you swear up and down he can do no wrong. 

“Oh,” you say, for lack of anything else to say, except perhaps break into verse about how much you pity his ridiculous mutant ass. “Okay.” 

“What are you doing?” He asks, sliding into a high chair by the counter and peering curiously at the array of ingredients set out. 

“Cake,” you admit a little wryly, missing your cape dearly. “For the Em—for Condesce.” 

It still sounds somewhat wrong, on your tongue. Disrespectful. Heretical. But she told you to – _I’m not an Empress anymore, am I? Just Condesce now_ – and despite it all, at least now that it’s not a life or death situation – or death or death _er_ , as it had been – you’re still not very inclined to antagonize her. You shake yourself free of your thoughts when you realize he’s giving you a long, measuring look. 

“What?” You hope it sounds sheepish, rather than defensive. 

“I thought she liked to bake,” Suff shrugs. “That’s all.” 

“Oddly enough,” you tease, lips quirked into a lopsided smile, “I think she likes making others bake for her more.” 

He smiles back. 

“Can I help?” 

Half an hour later, there’s a fantastic splatter of cake mix on the ceiling – _how?_ – but you can’t really concentrate on that for long, because there’s a smaller, warmer body pressing hard against yours and a mouth full of endearingly blunt teeth worrying the tendon on your neck, right below the gills. You’ve got a hand wound into his hair, though you don’t remember putting it there, and a leg hooked around his waist – which you definitely don’t remember doing, but you don’t complain because every time you rock against each other the friction makes you cry out. It’s not until you end up bent back against the counter, scrambling to hold onto something, that you’re willing to concede the fact you just got pailed within an inch of your life. 

You take full, proper revenge during the preliminary cleaning up, though, licking a trail up Suff’s spine just because it makes him squawk and think nothing of it at the end of the day, even if the cake you deliver ends up being considerably subpar due to the fact you keep getting distracted even after he leaves. 

  


* * *

  


The second time, you’re sure it’s just a coincidence. 

“Oh, hi,” he says, turning round a corner and nearly running into you. 

“Hello,” you reply, smiling easily, basket of pastries under one arm, the other with the thumb casually hooked on your pants. 

It takes skill to look badass while doing it, but you’re a master of looking badass no matter where you are, so you manage. You miss your cape a little, to be honest; it always made the badassitude easier. But you haven’t worn it in a while, and you’re pretty sure it’s not at your hive anymore. You wonder where it’s gone and quietly refuse to replace it. For reasons your own and which you will not share with anyone except maybe Dol. If she asks. Maybe. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Suff says falling into step with you, offering one of those ridiculous knee-destroying smiles of his, and you seriously wonder if he’s got any vague idea of what he does to you. 

You’re pretty sure Psi would have told him already, but then Suff probably doesn’t realize Psi means every word and not just because he pities him; it’s a roundabout way of getting to you, after all. A very pleasant, potentially hot way of getting to you, at that, but you think it might have not worked so far. You make a mental note to pick a fight with the yellowblood sometime tomorrow, and work out a way to put this plan in motion. You’re pretty sure he’ll agree this is the only acceptable way either of you will ever _use_ Suff – for hot, sexy values of the word “use” – for anything ever again, and you’re more than certain all parties involved will have no objections to it. 

“I’m under imperial orders today,” you say, joking about it in a way you wouldn’t have been able, scarce weeks prior, as you show him the contents of the basket. “Condesce is holding court and asked me to provide the food.” 

From there, you somehow end up in an alley, staring down at the length of his spine as he grips the wall and pants his breath into it. You roll your hips and claw at his, trying to resist the urge to shove him into the wall every time you feel him tighten and clench around you. He looks smaller than you, bent that way. He looks smaller and breakable and you can’t stop pailing him until he arches back with a loud cry and you feel genetic material sliding between your thighs. 

It scares you, how much you pity him. It scares you, how much you want to fold him up into you and keep him there, away from anything remotely unsafe. You kiss the palms of his hands, scratched from the rough wall, and bask in the small, nervous laughter it conjures. He kisses you like you’re air, and there’s nothing he could ask you that you wouldn’t give him. 

You’re late to your appointment; when you arrive, you find the troll girls and the Crocker girl, all knee-deep in luscious, long hair. Condesce gives you a look that you dearly hope none of the kids understand, but she says nothing at all, which in the end is far more terrifying. 

  


* * *

  


The third time, you start to suspect he’s up to something. 

But then his tongue runs along the edge of your nook, and the stars exploding behind your eyes do away with any kind of higher mental function for the next hour or so. 

  


* * *

  


The fourth time, you’re _certain_ he’s up to something. 

He also ends up sprawled on your table, almost on display, and you get to lick chocolate off the most interesting folds of skin. You leave the imprint of your teeth on the inside of his thigh, for Psi to find later, and the ghost of your tongue in places he’ll not soon forget. 

You start to carry a clean pail in your sylladex at all times, and refuse by sheer power of will to feel like a teenager again, even if your hormones seem to have other ideas. 

  


* * *

  


The fifth time, inspiration hits you while you’re having tea with Condesce. 

“I will strangle him,” you state calmly, putting down your cup and feeling a migraine building behind your left eye. 

“I would advise against it,” Condesce murmurs with just a ghost of a smirk, “as satisfying as I’d find it, it would probably make someone mad. Starting by yourself.” 

“I will strangle him with my own hands,” you repeat, standing up with grace and aplomb, “excuse me.” 

She waves a hand absently, but you don’t stay long enough to see what kind of look she’s giving you. Instead you stalk away with brisk steps and you really miss your cape for the extra glowering effect it’d add to the dramatic walk. It’s a fairly long walk though, so you’ve lost a bit of steam – and a lot of breath – by the time you make your way into his hive. 

“You’re a moron,” you announce, when you find him curled up inside the folds of your missing cape, napping on a pile of clean laundry. 

“Wha—“ 

“You’re a fuckin’ moron,” you repeat, falling to your knees and diving into the pile to kiss him until he’s been cured of his ridiculous case of the Stupid. “Impossible levels of moronic, oh god, c’mere.” 

You kiss his lips and his cheeks and down his neck. You press your mouth along the ridge of his collarbones, over his shoulders and then down the center of his chest. You ignore the hand desperately holding onto a horn when you dip your tongue into the small dips along his sides, where his grub legs were once upon a time. 

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Suff,” you whisper onto his skin, feeling it flush and warm up under your lips. 

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, half a sob, half a whine, when your fingers find his righteous leggings. It rises in volume and lowers in pitch when you use those same fingers to pull the damp leggings off. You pailed him before leaving to see Condesce – of course you did – but that hardly seems to matter now. You want him so bad it makes you dizzy. 

“I didn’t—“ His voice trails off into a strangled moan as his legs slide apart for your hand. His hands find your face, your fins and finally your hair. “Your cape’ll get ruined,” he mutters in a strange moment of misplaced self-awarenes. 

“Fuck the cape,” you hiss into his ear, then drag a gasp out of his throat when you thrust a finger in. “Small price to pay for you to _get_ how much jealousy doesn’t suit you.” 

He wraps himself around you, claws digging into your back. 

“I like the cape,” he whispers in the smallest of voices, and you think you can hear a quiet _I’m sorry_ underneath that. 

“I like _you_ ,” you snap, sliding into wet warmth and refusing to let go. 

You then proceed to try your damn hardest to ruin your cape. 

  


* * *

  


There is no sixth time. 

Just a lot of positive reinforcement on how much better off everything is without petty, silly things like jealousy getting in the way. 

Psi helps. _A lot_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ash, supposedly in FBaTN-verse.
> 
> I apologize for the patent lack of puns, but aside that, I REGRET NOTHING.


End file.
